


rain and red hair

by nuuboo (orphan_account)



Category: Naruto
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 12:06:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1857429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/nuuboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She looked beautiful in the worst of times, on the worst of days. It was like looking at something through the thinnest pane of glass; he would never reach out, and she would never encourage him. But all they had now was each other, and maybe that would suffice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	rain and red hair

It was raining. _Figures_ , he thought, that it would be. It wasn’t a day for sun or breeze or bright, happy flowers or beautiful trees. Actually, he didn’t think there’d be a day for those things again for a long time. Not for him, at least.

The crowd that gathered was large. It was made of more than just the remains of the Senju clan, too, and somehow that reality made Tobirama even more sour. The Uchiha must have attended to be polite, at the very least, but he wished they wouldn’t. He wanted to mourn the loss in private. Hashirama was _his_ brother. Hashirama was _his_ family. These people— these strangers— they didn’t have the right to mourn him. But Hashirama always did try to extend the courtesy towards them as though they were family, too. Tobirama wondered if Hashirama would be pleased at the turnout. He wondered if he was watching at all, or if that was another childhood lie just like the many others he’d been told. 

He stood dressed in black robes that made him look more pale than he actually was. His light hair stood out against the material and then lost itself, pressed against his cheek. The rain was bitter cold and without his normal attire, he felt colder, smaller and far more fragile. The thin, dark jacket he sported did little to shield the cold, and he found himself staring at the table, the flowers, the picture of the familiar, smiling face in an effort to ignore the chill. 

Beside him, he heard a muffled noise that sounded rather like a small child trying to hold in a burst of emotion. And when he turned, that was exactly what he saw— it startled him to see her that way, but he didn’t know what he expected. She stood in the rain, drenched and shivering. She refused the umbrella offered and stood tall, hands clasped around her middle; her expression was stern, brows knit, mouth taught. Her lipstick had smudged with her gnawing, and it looked almost as though her lip was bleeding. She wasn’t crying, and neither was he— but they were both suffering. More than any others in the crowd, Hashirama’s death hit them the hardest. 

And when he thought about it, Tobirama suddenly realized just how empty he felt. He felt drained and tired, _really_ tired, as though Hashirama took all of his energy with him when he went down. Tobirama stared at his hands, bare and pale and large and thought back to Hashirama’s ones and how different they were. They were always different; brothers, but so vastly different in a way that made Tobirama feel even smaller. Hashirama was a leader and he wasn’t. Hashirama was extroverted, bright, strong and _kind_ and everything he wasn’t and yet _he_ was the one that left, leaving Tobirama alone with a clan to lead and no idea of how to do it. The responsibility suddenly seemed crushing; the clan around him, the widow beside him, the shaking heads and quiet murmuring all seemed to be too much to handle and he wished, for once, that he could just sit and cry and mourn like others did. 

He wasn’t afraid to admit to himself that he was a broken man, now. A man without family wasn’t much of a man at all. The abundance of Senju around him didn’t do a damn thing to ease the ache or he emptiness or the pain and he wondered what it meant to be a clan at all— was this family? Because it didn’t _feel_ like family. He _had_ family, and he just lost it. He felt like a child again, standing behind a younger Hashirama, looking at the graves of his younger siblings— except Hashirama wasn’t there anymore. He was the oldest, looking on at his sibling’s grave. He was the only one left, and the thought made his throat close and jaw clench. 

He turned suddenly and slipped his coat off. It was damp, but it was better than nothing. Slipping it around Mito’s shoulders, he felt her tense at his touch and become rigid. Even drenched, dressed in black, she looked like a beautiful light in the field of grey. Her hair, matted and messy and tangled, still looked beautiful to him. He thought that it always would, somehow. His hands remained on her shoulders longer than they should have, and he was about to pull away when one of her smaller ones caught hold of his. Bright, blue eyes stared up at him and conveyed a bible of words to him that neither could speak out loud. She squeezed down and he let her, offering her what warmth he could. 

She was looking at him as though she was pleading with him, silently begging him for something he wished he could readily promise. _'Don't you leave me too',_ she was saying in her silence, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to do anything but give her an honest stare in return. He held her hand and stood in silence as he always did. 

He wasn’t crying, and neither was she. But they were both broken, and they knew that. They could be broken together. They could pick each other off the ground. He was far from his pride, now, and the thought of leaning on Mito and being leant on in return didn’t seem daunting anymore. He could do that much for the family he had left. 

"We should return inside," he said. It was the first thing he’d said all day. She hadn’t let go of her hold on his hand yet, and Tobirama wished that she wouldn’t for a while yet. Just for today, he promised. He would become strong tomorrow.


End file.
